


You're odd, like me

by willowelijah



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Party, Romance, The Blue and Gold School Newpaper (Riverdale), bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowelijah/pseuds/willowelijah
Summary: Jughead is not interested in girls, ironically this seems to make a lot of them interested in him. Except for Betty, and it drives him crazy when she won't show any interest in him after spending so many late nights together working on The Blue and Gold. (Bughead)
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this story on Fanfiction.net back in 2017, but I'm adding it to my profile here as well now.

A grey haze has swept in over Riverdale. The dense air makes the moss on the trees appear greener against the pale setting that is the town itself.

I stand steadfast looking up at the weathered façade of Riverdale High. Feeling the weight of the building towering above me. _That building would crush me into oblivion if it suddenly collapsed unto me, right as I stood here defencelessly peering up._ I try my best to let those words resonate, to really feel the reality of the statement. I don’t know why I do it. I often imagine things that hold neither significance nor productivity.

Yet no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to conceptualize the thought. The unlikeliness of it actually happening is too great I assume. And then simultaneously the event that holds unlikeliness great enough to halter my imagination can often feel so real, however, in a metaphorical sense.

I decide upon entering the thing that crushes me. But leaving my thoughts of destruction at the door.

While walking down the corridor with my hands in the pockets of my jean jacket I wear the same old tired expression I always do. I look for Archie among the crowd, hoping I won’t see him with one of his football acquaintances. I would say friends, but it would be an inaccurate description for most of the team I believe. They’re not nice; let’s just say that. I haven’t been called Jughead so often since I was little that even my friend and myself now also do for nothing. The thing is it really doesn’t matter how inexistent your regard of them is, it still crushes down on you, but slowly and unnotably until you’re crushed. Much like in the same way a frog doesn’t notice the rising temperature of the water until it’s boiling.

Surprisingly, Archie never minded. He has still kept by my side through the years. Just far enough not to fall into the boiling water himself, yet still keeping close. See Archie they accept, Archie they like. He follows their idea of normalcy. He flirts with girls, plays football and goes to their parties. Archie is on safe water, the lukewarm kind.

I see him standing by his locker. He’s not talking to a football player, but to the other kind I like to avoid: girls.

This is the greatest enigma of my existence: The same bored and mysterious exterior that I carry, which inevitably drives most heterosexual boys to torment me, seems to have the opposite effect with a great deal of people who find themselves attracted to the male gender. I don’t know why, but they continue to show a keen interest in me despite my attempts at dislodging myself.

I greet them both and lean against the lockers, folding my arms, assuming the ‘careless with a supposed hint of annoyance’ exterior I like to be displayed in. The girl turns away from Archie and flashes me a would-be contagious smile had I not been immune.

“Hey Jug.” She greets back. She touches my beanie lightly, withholding the smile, which I refuse to reciprocate, especially now that she’s touched my beanie. I catch Archie’s eye and he looks on amused. No, the beanie isn’t consecrated or anything. I know it’s just a hat, having it be anything more than that would be childish. It’s just an odd thing to do is all. I don’t even know her that well. Maybe her name is Tessa or something? I’m not sure. Instead of smiling back, I search her eyes, not dropping my apathetic demeanour for anything. I wonder how determined she is. Usually, the suitors give up after not long. But I’ve had a determined fair few.

My thought is interrupted though, as I hear the familiar rolling of wheels echoing through the corridor. The wheels supposedly belong to a skateboard, and that skateboard supposedly belongs to none other than my, more often than not frustratingly so, partner in crime. My eyes, currently plastered on another, are instantly stolen away along with their attention. Only to be directed at a blonde girl who just turns the corner in that moment. I follow her with my eyes as she, head held high, looking straight ahead rolls right by us. Just as she passes her head turns and she briefly sweeps over us with her gaze. Beginning with Archie and landing on me. She then disappears into the stream of people, never to be seen again, or at least not until later today when we will be working together on the Blue and Gold, the school newspaper.

I like words, basically. I like combining them in intriguing ways, I like finding out new and interesting one’s. So when the teachers announced they were inaugurating the formerly dormant school paper I was the first to sign up. Also, I was one of the only two who did.

The other was Betty, aforementioned skateboarding Betty. Blonde girl sometimes interesting, sometimes frustrating Betty. Betty, whom I have come to realise, is even more intense when it comes to writing than I, although, that may be because I write outside of the Blue and Gold. I write my own stories and I spend most of my nights at Pop’s sunken in whatever allegedly meaningless narrative I’m invested in at that moment. It occurs to me now that for all I know, she might do the same. It occurs to me now that I don’t know all that much about her. Yet I spend more or less every day in that darkly lit study, hence the Betty being intense when it comes to writing and it inevitably sending me down the very same spiral.

I slowly realise that the girl talking to us (mainly Archie at this point) has uttered something directed at me; she carries a look of hopefulness, which makes me feel uncertain as to what to reply with. I mutter something in the likes of a “Yeah, cool.” Archie, standing behind her now carries an accusatory look, which I ignore as the girl had departs our company looking pleased. The girl seems happy and so I deem my “lords work” done. Archie will always continue to be disappointed in my lack of interest in people who take an interest in me, so there is really no legitimate reason in paying him any attention these days. Let him sulk! Cry the apostles.

* * *

I am slouched down over a table in the cafeteria with my bag as padding. Sitting next to me is Archie, like always. Like always he is chewing away at whatever nourishment comes near his mouth. I am not touching my food at the moment as I am in the middle of my daily routine of scanning the cafeteria. Similar to the way the suave cat spends numerous hours watching pedestrians from the windowsill of the home, never growing weary, I too find pleasure in viewing the students go about their lives, an outsider looking in.

She is sitting all by herself like always. It doesn’t seem to bother her, however. She appears content with her situation. Managing to make eating alone in a cafeteria full of people her age look intentional, like everything is going as planned. I don’t think I would have been able to put up that level of an at ease façade had I been in her seat. Let’s face it, had it not been for Archie and I being childhood friends, I would have surely been in her seat. Or maybe I would have been in the seat next to hers...

I shake the thought away immediately. That would never happen. Betty is simply impossible; I have declared it being so long ago.

What I said before about most people who favour boys taking an interest in me. This has never been the case with Betty.

There are signs, okay? Signs one learns to detect, and later to expect when two people spend an awful lot of time together late at night and leaned closely toward the same computer screen. Signs like stealing unnecessary glances, lingering when one shouldn’t and asking personal questions or even making flirtatious remarks.

These signs have never come from Betty, no matter how long or closely we work. She is a mystery. Never teasing, never wanting to spend more than necessary time with me, never keeping it outside of the bounds of the professional for even so much as to ask me how I am.

So instead I started doing it. I’ve tried asking her things, I’ve lingered and I’ve stolen glances. I’ve even tried being flirtatious at times. Nothing has made her open up, not even to leave the door so much as ajar. It’s as if she has removed the hand applying pressure to a bleeding wound and now I have to stop the increasing blood loss with my own. Except no one is bleeding so I don’t know why I do it. I am simply not needed, I’ve realised subsequently, and I think that’s fundamentally what bothers me.

She isn’t rude or anything. I mean, she has a knack for sparking frustration in me, and I think she might be intentionally contentious at times only to advance our texts, making them the best they can be. But she isn’t intentionally rude. She just simply isn’t interested in the mysterious demeanour all the others seem to find so enticing. Which is fair yet nonetheless, enigmatic.

It might be that she prefers the other gender of course. I don’t wish to assume the former points mentioned as proof of this, which would be narcissistic of course. Although having such an attitude toward me would probably not be ill placed. Nevertheless, from my experience with girls, and Betty is a girl, her lack of showing the designated signs did come as a surprise. That I cannot dismiss.

“Jughead.” Archie calls at me and I slip out of my daydream to look at him only to find Betty standing right in front of us looking quizzically at me. I shoot up from my slouching position like hit by lightning. They both seem taken aback by my minor contretemps. I instinctively try to salvage this by glaring at Betty, and quite excessively so, compared to the default frown that usually adorns my features. Betty has a way of making me on edge, making me painstakingly aware of how I’m carrying myself. A power no one else has. This probably plays part in how I can be extra agitated sometimes when we communicate. She usually doesn’t seem to mind though, which in itself creates a whole other subcategory of agitation.

“Rude, dude.” Archie says after a significant amount of my glaring at Betty and slaps me on the shoulder in the process. “Hi, Betty, is what he means to say.” He smiles apologetically at her. Archie has always been excessively polite, even kind to Betty. Always excusing my behaviour for me, or agreeing to things in my place. I don’t see why he feels the need to be this nice to her but in this instance it seems to catalytically start her off.

“What’s up,” she starts, “I was just thinking maybe we should meet at Pop’s tonight and finish the article there instead of here at school. It’ll probably be a long one, tonight, I mean. You know how pedantic we get… I was just thinking it might be better to do it at Pop’s so that we can grab dinner as well, so that we won’t be hungry…” She trails of; having started her speech somewhat confidently it surely degenerated toward the end.

I shrug and slouch down on the table again. “I’m supposed to be at the Twilight tonight.” My eyes trace the blonde locks that cover her shoulders with a frown as I look up at her. Before I can continue she nods and makes for a departure so I have to hurriedly add, “But they have food there obviously, I mean it’s a drive in theatre, of course there’s food.” She turns back to meet my gaze. “I’ll have to monitor the projector I guess but … we’ll work something out.” I get the feeling that this is when the average human would give her a smile, so I don’t.

Why couldn’t she have just texted me? But she felt the need to venture over to my realm and disrupt the peace. I was perfectly fine studying her at a safe distance when she was all the way over at the other end of the cafeteria, where she now retrieves after little actual communication between us.

“I love that girl.” Archie says, smiling. I give him a contemptuous stare. “It’s just that she … sort of…” He looks at me as though he assumes I already know what he’s going to say, which I genuinely don’t. “She gets to you is what I mean to say.” He finally spills while eyeing me amusedly. I respond to this by giving him my death stare and rolling my eyes until they land on the girl across the cafeteria briefly. Archie seems to have caught this as he shakes his head gently while peering at his food.

“Well, despite your sullen ways … and in this case outright awkwardness, at least you still got a date. Plain old Jug, wouldn’t you say?” Archie says light-heartedly after a moment’s silence.

With a scornful look I say, “A date? You think I’d bother with such trivial matters? This is about reporting on the news of this school, keeping the people of this town informed. It’s nothing less of professionalism.”

“Of course, how could I make such a mistake?” Archie says, but without the sincerity in his tone. Replaced instead with mock at my pretentious manner, I presume.

* * *

**2 April 2017**


	2. Chapter 2

We are sat in the back of Archie’s pickup truck facing the projection of Psycho, tonight’s movie. A movie that shows little actual violence, or so called ‘gore’, yet nonetheless film critics of the time had found horrifying. A true example of good filmmaking, when one applies narrative tools in a seamless way to make the viewer feel as though they’ve witnessed so much more than what they actually have.

Archie seems far less than impressed with it though. Betty and I have been far too caught up in finishing the last details of our latest issue to bother with the movie. Instead we sit engrossed in Betty’s laptop under layers of blankets and far too closely.

I let myself watch Betty for a moment while her blue eyes stare at the screen, the only thing currently being the source of illumination. I watch her as she bops the page up and down, looking for errors in the text; she probably assumes I am currently doing the same. She is so very meticulous when it comes to The Blue and Gold, I can see it in her eyes, which radiate passion as she scans the pages. She keeps tucking a loose hair strand behind her ear. I scan her features the same way she scans the pages, with meticulousness. Her features are quite feminine. The blonde hair falling to her shoulders, the blue eyes and the button nose. Yet despite those facts she is always with a face void of make-up, combined with a sparse selection of baggy clothes and carrying her skateboard. Or even more often skating through the hallways of Riverdale High, never bothering to look out for others, they have to look out for her. I’ve never seen her get caught, though. Riding a skateboard through the hallways isn’t a thing teachers typically like.

It is odd indeed, her look of sorts, contrasts greatly to that of her sister Polly’s, who had been the most popular girl in Riverdale, no doubt. That was until she got sick, but it was the even trickier kind of illness, the illness of the brain. Not something to be cured with needles and bandages.

The Cooper sisters come from one of the ‘classier’ families of Riverdale, yet Betty has never looked the part. My suspicions tell me the skateboard and the baggy clothes are there to distract from what she doesn’t want to be identified with. I know shame when I see it, especially the familial sort of shame.

Suddenly I hear an unfamiliar voice. “Got room for one more? Sorry I’m a bit later than I thought I was going to be.” My eyes move initially to the sound source and when I find that it is Tessa from this morning standing in front of us who has spoken, they turn over to Archie in a questioning sort of way.

Archie looks shocked at the sudden turn of events. “Yes, of course there is.” He says in a strained tone, making room between himself and I.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had invited her?” I ask Archie.

“Actually, he didn’t.” She says confidently while taking a few steps closer. “Archie mentioned you were going to be here tonight so I asked if I could join you, _and you said yes_.” She keeps my gaze, looking at me intently. There’s some underlying seductiveness in her stare. I’m guessing she thinks my obliviousness is me playing hard to get, you know, contrary to the plain old rational _disinterest._

Catching on quickly like I usually do if I’m allowed some credit, I reply, although not so convincingly, “Right, now I remember.” with an inward cringe at my indelicate approach to the matter. I must have agreed to this without knowing somehow, I think. “Will you give us a moment, Tessa?” I say and show my rare but sporadically evident polite side.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?” I urge Archie when Tessa is beyond hearing distance.

“Because. This will teach you.” He declares confidently.

“What on this heavenly planet could hold such academic significance to make you feel the need to create such and awkward situation as this one?”

Archie rolls his eyes. “It’ll teach you not to play with women’s hearts.”

I glance at Betty before I can stop myself, feeling embarrassed. Anxiety gathers in the pit of my stomach at the thought of how that must have sounded to her. “I do not toy with women’s hearts. It isn’t my fault she mistakes my disinterest for something remotely different.” I speak clearly, so that everyone in the company can take in the words. “You know that, Archie. I just wasn’t listening in that particular moment when I agreed to this.” I say heatedly underneath my breath.

Archie scoffs at that. “Yeah well, it’ll teach you to pay more attention when people are talking to you, instead of staring of at-” And now it was Archie’s turn to glance over at Betty, who is faking obliviousness as to what we were talking about. “… Things.” He finishes tentatively.

I simply glare at him, which causes him to soften a little. “Truthfully,” he says. “I’d forgotten about it by now, and if I’d remembered it, along with the knowledge you’d be bringing Betty…” Of which is looking very uncomfortable by now, and so Archie is quick to correct himself. “I mean with the knowledge that you guys were going to be working on The Blue and Gold I would’ve obviously said something. But things are the way they are and I really think we should call her over or something because she’s looking a little lost over there.” Archie finishes nervously while peering at Tessa awkwardly standing about a few feet away in the dark. Seemingly trying very hard to seem interested in the too old and black and white movie. The Twilight is sadly not a place most people come for education in the cinematic arts and more because of … hormones.

Nonetheless, Tessa makes herself comfortable between Archie and I. Silence ensues and I feel like I should say something, feel like everyone expects me to so I mumble in a low voice, “Um, Betty and I are just doing the final touches to The Blue and Gold, so I’m just going to…” I trail of and after a significant enough time I turn back to Betty finally who smiles stiffly at me.

* * *

“No! I won’t let you smother this piece with your ostentatious self!” she smiles and pushes me light-heartedly.

I can’t help but break into a smile as well. “She says while shamelessly using the word ostentatious! I think you’ve reached the pinnacle of pretentiousness right there.“ I retort in mock seriousness.

“Guys, can you quieten down a bit?” Archie asks us apologetically. And we both seem to shamefully realise we were in fact being quite loud as we awkwardly glance at each other and mutter our rues.

We retreat back to our writing bubble, making sure to whisper to each other for the rest of the night. I occasionally feel Tessa’s stare on me, which try to shrug off as paranoia but every time I look over at her I catch her glancing at us, pendulating between Betty and I. She makes me feel like a complete ass. Firstly for creating this whole situation in the first place, disappointing this Tessa girl and dragging Betty into the whole ordeal, Betty who doesn’t deserve to have a random girl stare at her the whole damn night. I wish I could explain to Tessa that Betty and I are merely colleagues and that we have to work on this paper or it won’t be released on schedule, then maybe she wouldn’t throw Betty those jealous stares. However, that Pandora’s box is one I do not wish to open right here, releasing all the awkwardness into the world. And it probably wouldn’t serve beneficial to me putting forward the implication that _I’m not interested._ Something, I’ve learned over the years, is a lot harder of a message to put across than it would seem to the common person.

Betty and I whisper away while people gradually withdraw into the night one by one until we’re the only ones left sitting now in the dimly lit projector room, sheltered from the cool October air. Archie and Tessa had left without much spectacle, landing the evening on a much-appreciated anti-climax.

It’s almost 3 a.m. and we’re still at it. Why? I’m not sure. I guess it would seem to the untrained eye that this annex is finished by now, that it was finished long ago. And I find myself gradually agreeing with the untrained eye as more time passes. It’s strange, spending time with somebody until such an hour of the day as this one. It feels oddly personal, intimate. I watch her be immersed in our writings, occasionally asking for my opinion on something that will appear highly irrelevant tomorrow when I’ll be asking myself why I stayed up this late. ‘Good question.’ Is all I’ll say for now, as I can’t bring myself to suggest us maybe getting some sleep? What Betty doesn’t know is that just behind the door she’s sitting next to is where I slumber every night.

Betty suddenly shuts her computer and I realise I’d stopped paying attention and drifted off.

“It’s ready for release!” She calls out like it’s a weight lifted of her shoulder, and I think it’s the weight of learning that there is nothing more she can do to make it better, I try to assure her of this.

“A piece of art is never finished.” She replies confidently, which earns a tired smile from me. She starts grabbing her things. “Thanks for staying up with me,” she says apologetically, “for overlooking my-“

“Your ostentatiousness?” I smirk while grabbing my coat. She smiles back at me sweetly in a very Betty-esque way.

We walk on the side of the road breathing the cool air of the night. The night is peaceful with a lack of sound and the streetlights embellishing us both with a yellow film but simultaneously uneasy with the daunting trees by the road, surrounded by uncharted darkness.

We walk in silence, but it’s an okay silence I think because we’ve been talking non-stop this whole night, causing this silence to seem somehow preferential.

When we approach Betty’s neighbourhood she says. “You don’t have to follow me home.” Something I had wished she wouldn’t bring up.

“I’m not. This is on my way home.” I look at the stately homes we pass and I find myself with a strong want that I didn’t know I had for the lie to be of truth. I find myself overwhelmingly saddened by the upcoming inevitable 180° turn I will have to make and retreat to my grudged ground.

“It strikes me now that I don’t know where you live.” She looks at me expectantly, seemingly wanting me to clarify exactly where I live. I had expected her to appear somewhat embarrassed over the fact that she just wrongly assumed I was doing her a gentlemanly favour. But once again I turn to annoyance with her apathy. Any other person would have been embarrassed by that, so why isn’t she?

“Um, just down there.” I say vaguely while pointing at the continuing road.

“Oh, good, I’ll try and remember that if I ever need to send you a letter.” She says sarcastically. “This is where I live.” She stops outside one of the stately houses. “In case you ever need to send me a letter.”

“That’s good to know. Now get inside and get some sleep. We don’t want your mom seeing you out here talking to a strange boy do we?” I say and smile cheekily. Hoping for some sort of reaction this time.

“It’s 3 a.m. she’s most likely asleep, Jughead.”

 _I guess not_. I think. When she’s disappears into the dark I turn the inevitable 180° on my heel and scatter of to my own home, not falling asleep until 4 a.m.

* * *

**9 April 2017**


	3. Chapter 3

“FOR FUCKS SAKE!” I yell, everyone around me stops for a moment to look at me, only to return to their drunken endeavours seconds later. Drunken people can’t focus on one thing for too long I’ve found throughout the years.

“It’s only alcohol, Jug!” Archie exults, referring to the substance now dripping all over me. Something I don’t think he would have said to me if he were in his right mind. But right now Archie is not in his right mind, hence the exulting. That is another thing I’ve found out over the years, Archie always exults everything he says when he’s drunk. And _he is drunk_. Why is he drunk? Because we are at a party, and I do believe that it’s customary for some unknown reason. Why am I at a party? Well, to answer that question we must voyage into the past:

I had been at Pop’s for about an hour, trying to figure out the plot of a story, which recently entered into my head. It’s a narrative I’m entirely unfamiliar with, that of a boy and a girl.

But then Archie walked into Pop’s unexpectedly. I wouldn’t normally say that it’s unexpected for Archie Andrews to be seen at Pop’s. Although on a Friday night, I would say so, and I wouldn’t normally look up from my laptop when someone enters the small diner. I guess we both aren’t ourselves on this night. I had returned a greeting wave Archie had sent me before he walked over to me and did not sit down across from me. Instead he just looked expectantly at me.

“Take a seat.” I had said to him sardonically; surprised he seemed to seek my sanction.

He had gestured with his hands, although still limited in the pockets of his jersey. “Come on Jug! You know I’m not here to sit.”

“Right.” I had said slowly in realisation, dragging the ‘I’. “I have to say I admire your dedication to this little project of yours of getting me to that party. I guess you give me no choice but to saunter away.” I had said humorously, trying to hide the fact that I inevitably dreaded the thought of being in that surrounding. Dread is not part of the Jughead aesthetic, which I display to the world.

Usually I would decline the offer of going to a party, _and I had,_ many times earlier today. But Archie had nagged on like the unwavering itch that he is, so eventually I said yes without the intention of ever following up on my promise. My plan was to make Archie believe I was going so he’d get of my back, and then sit here all night working on my novel while Archie supposedly wondered where I was at the party I wasn’t attending. I would be prepared to suffer whatever the repercussions on Monday. I hadn’t planned on the scenario of him actually showing up at Pop’s to make sure I followed up, but I guess now that I am living that very scenario I guess it is a plausible one, and one I should have taken into account. Live and learn.

Anyway, this lead to a spiral of actions which have lead me here, at a house party, soaked in what I can only assume is a mixture of alcoholic beverages one would not recommend imbibing if concerned for one’s general wellbeing.

Archie keeps apologizing to me, but I’m not paying him any attention. I wish to remove myself from this situation. Why did Archie insist on taking me here? Does he honestly believe this is my idea of a good time? We are standing in a mass of people pressed together in a small space. I need to get away, but the idea of leaving this party doesn’t thrill me either given how Archie was my ride and there’s a long walk home. October is a beautiful time, albeit the weather has brought with it unfavourable limitations.

I slip away from Archie and he doesn’t follow, thankfully. I enter a relatively secluded hallway with the intention of finding my way upstairs somehow, though I’m not sure as to how since I am not familiar with this house.

I have learned a few tricks from going to a fair few house parties in my lifespan. For example: even though most parties are packed with people, these people usually only hang out in between one or three rooms of the house. Meaning there is usually a fair portion of the house sheltered from the turmoil.

This has been my approach to any given party throughout the years. I successfully escape for an hour or two, only to retreat back to my friend after the appropriate (yet least) amount of time has passed, all is well.

Phase one is now completed and I have reached the isolation from the drunken teenagers, also known as ‘the upstairs’.

Now comes phase two: finding a place to settle in the safe waters that hasn’t already been claimed, also known as ‘a room where the drunken teenagers aren’t having sex’. Another thing I have learnt in my quest to master the skill of making it through a party without doing any of the actual partying; when moving toward a secluded area, be careful not to disrupt any sexual activity also typically taking place, to my dismay, in those parts of the house I have come to usually inhabit.

This time however, I find that every room is occupied up until the last one I check. (I find it being so by simply pressing my ear against the door and listening for signs of human life.) Or at least it seemed empty at first so I’d closed the door, only to discover a dark figure on the bed. I reached for the handle again but upon seeing her face let go of it instinctively. It’s Betty Cooper sitting on the bed.

Unsure of what to do I put my hands in the pockets of my jean jacket, a nervous tick of some sorts. “Hi.” I say and smile shyly. I then curse myself at my far from antipathic behaviour.

“Hi.” She says back. I almost expect her to be crying or something, as if customary for someone to be doing when sitting in a dark room by oneself. Yet she sounds fairly cheery. “Venturing off to safe ground, I presume?” Betty teases.

“How did you know?” I smile and move toward her, hands still safe in the pockets.

“Well, that’s why I’m here. And as odds would have it, if there’s one of something, there’s usually more of that something.” She says while meeting my eyes. “Also I can’t imagine you being the party type.”

“I’m not, and neither are you it seems.” I sit down at a safe distance on the other side of the bed. “Why are you here then? At this party I mean.” I find myself for once sounding very gentle when speaking to her. Maybe it is a result of being displaced from the crushing environment Riverdale High provides so amiably.

The muffled sounds of music in addition to numerous people having different conversations all at once throughout the house can be heard, yet not a single sound cadences from this room. I look at Betty who isn’t answering me; she looks sort of uncomfortable at the question.

“Honestly I don’t know Jug.” She finally says, and I try to not show any reaction to the mention of my nickname so to not make her feel uncomfortable using it in the future. I like when she calls me Jug, it makes our relationship feel less professional, more relaxed. “I tried to make the best of it, tried to fit in, but I just couldn’t pretend to be like them.” She looks down at her hands, fiddling with her nail, looking actually sad. She then goes on to rub her hands vigorously against her jeans, supposedly removing sweat from them and she looks up at the roof. I wonder if she’s going to cry and I watch her for a while in apprehension, but it never comes thankfully. Instead she gazes out the window, which reflects back on her a violet light. Her thoughts look far away from here.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Jughead.” She smiles apologetically. “You go and find Archie and I’ll see you on Monday.” She nods at me in salute, picks up her phone and starts scrolling through what we can only assume is some social medium.

A strong sense of dread fills me at the thought of having to leave this room and go downstairs and re-join the zombie apocalypse. “Hey!” I burst and move closer to her. “You’re kind of leaving me up for grabs here! As we already established earlier: I came here looking for a safe heaven. And now you’re just going to banish me like some soulless empress?” I emote.

She reacts in the exact way I hoped she would, by smiling. She looks away and lets her eyes get taken over by the light from the streetlights outside once again. If I’m not incorrect it’s one of those reluctant smiles one cannot stop from coming about. “You can stay.” She says without looking and we both smile in that reluctant way, except she doesn’t notice mine.

Betty glances at me then, “Why do you wear a jacket? _We’re indoors,_ Jughead.” She asks to successfully change the subject. “You never, ever, take it off.”

I tuck my hands back in my pockets from where they had escaped and shrug. “Because. I’m weird, in case you haven’t noticed.” I gesture at myself. “I’m a total weirdo.”

“That’s not a reason!” She says and in a natural yet remarkable turn of events she sinks down onto the floor and leans against the bed, looking up at me. I take this as her cementing herself to this room, not planning on leaving anytime soon.

“You should talk, skateboard girl.” I retort.

“Skateboarding is a hobby.”

“Fashion is a hobby.”

She snorts. “Are you telling me _this_ is a fashion statement?” She laughs and gestures at my jacket. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard her laugh before.

Before my mind has registered the closer coming footsteps from the corridor Archie barges in with a jerk at the door. Up until this point in my life I wouldn’t have guessed that it’s possible to fall horizontally, but Archie is no ordinary man, and he sort of manages to. Right into our safe haven; he barely doges the floor and concentrates to find his balance. When he does, he looks up at us perplexed, as if this was not the place he had intended to end up.

The look of perplex is soon replaced by one of excitement and he says, “There you are!” I am surprised to find that contrary to my former belief, he is not referring to me but the third person currently in this room, the one sitting next to me on the floor, the empress of this safe heaven; Betty, for short. She moves awkwardly to sit on the bed again.

Archie smiles eagerly at me. “You found her Jug!”

“I didn’t know I was looking for her.” I say sarcastically.

“That’s because I didn’t tell you! But I invited her, so now she’s here!” Archie half shouts, and he’s equally as enthusiastic as before. I think he’s forgotten he left the loud music downstairs.

“That’s well deduced Archie.” I say, but my eyes are on Betty, who looks uncomfortable indeed. I curse Archie in my head. Drunken people are the worst when sober, although I don’t have anything to compare with. I wish I could just remove Archie from this room right now; Betty shouldn’t have to deal with this. But I also want to know more about their exchange. “I didn’t know you guys were friends.” I say to Betty.

“We’re buddies, alright!” Archie laughs and leans over the bed to pat Betty on the shoulder in a drunken mess. I instantly block Archie by taking hold of his arm.

“Archie, seriously? Can’t you see we’re fucking uncomfortable? Can’t you tell we came here to get _away_ from the madness downstairs?” I say sternly.

“Hey relax Jug,” he staggers backward, “I’m sorry, ‘didn’t realise I was making you uncomfortable.” Then he switches position like a gust of wind. “But she can tell me herself if she thinks I’m…” he trails of. “That’s not your job Juggie.” He raises a finger at me as if he’s lecturing me. He’s like a comic character.

“Yeah, of course she can but she won’t because she obviously doesn’t want to be rude, alright? So back off a bit will you?” I say heatedly. “Besides. You’re making _me_ uncomfortable Archie, don’t you get that?” I look as him intensely. “You _should_ get that.”

Archie seems to gather himself. “You’re right, sorry I’m being a drunk ass idiot. I’ll just leave.” And just like that he’s departs, as abruptly as he arrived.

It’s quiet. I’m a little scared to look at Betty now. Scared I’ve embarrassed her in some way. I guess this is the trouble with a party, and why I never enjoy them; there is no safe haven.

“Drunk people are the _worst_.” Betty finally says.

I break into a smile. “They are.”

It’s quiet for a bit longer and I can’t help but wonder why a girl like Betty would accept a party invitation from _Archie_. “But I guess if you’re into sporty guys then Archie is the one for you.” I let slip in a judgmental tone.

“I wouldn’t say I’m into anyone.” Betty says in an equally sardonic voice as mine. “But he’s nice.” She continues more softly. “Which is a rare thing to find in Riverdale.”

“I’m … nice.” I defend, which Betty doesn’t say anything to and, I’ll admit, it doesn’t make me feel very confident in the validity of my words. “Okay. I’ll admit that Archie is … nice. But he’s also kind of a dunce, you know? He doesn’t see things. He doesn’t … notice details. He’s all up in himself.” I conclude while searching her eyes for something, I don’t know what, and she just stares back, unsure. There’s no giveaway in her stare, I know I won’t find anything, but I keep searching like a man stuck in a labyrinth, desperate for an escape.

“So are you the type of guy who _notices_ things?” She asks.

“Oh no. That’s not me. I’m equally oblivious, absorbed in my own little world with my jean jackets and weird hats, you see.” I say with ambiguous authenticity and stand up. “Anyway, I should be getting home now.”

“Alright.” Betty replies, standing up as well.

“Do you have a ride home?” I ask.

She nods back. “Yeah, I’ll just call mom.”

I extend my hand to her and she reacts with puzzlement. We don’t usually shake hands when departing one another’s company. Nevertheless, she doesn’t disappoint and extends her hand with dignity, which I take in mine. But I don’t shake it, for this is not a handshake. I hold it in mine and flip hers around so that her palm is facing up. I look at the scars I already know adorns her skin and I can feel her reluctance so I stroke my thumb against them gently before I look up to meet her eyes again. “Goodnight.” I say, and leave the safe haven.

* * *

**22 April 2017**


	4. Chapter 4

I tread with solemn pace the school hallway until I reach The Blue and Gold offices. The door is as stolid as always when I push it open. Betty is already there, and to my surprise Archie is sitting next to her looking all confident with his ginger hair and baseball jacket. I take a sharp breath. “Hello.” I say, visibly weirded out.

“Oh hello Jughead, I’m just correcting your latest piece.” Says Betty as I enter.

“I prefer the term ‘improving’, but good.”

Archie laughs.

I sit down on a chair and swing my feet up to rest on a table. “How are you finding The Blue and Gold office, Archie?” I ask. My tone is accusing, but not outwardly so.

“I’m liking it a lot. Can I stay while you guys work?”

“Of course you can.” Betty says in that kind way preserves for other people.

“As long as you don’t talk.” I’m quick to add. Now, I am aware this might seem upfront of a thing to say, maybe even rude, at first glance. What you’ve got to understand is that Archie and I, we’re barely friends. We’re not friendly. We have a brotherly relationship and treat it as such.

Picking up a pad from my bag I begin making a mind map for my next piece. I listen to the greedy rain tapping against the windows forcefully. I enjoy sitting inside while the rain is pouring. There’s this false sense of security; the rain can’t reach me, I’m safe.

I see that Archie has turned to his phone for the moment.

“So how was your weekend?” I try, while hitting the pad with my pen. It doesn’t come out as confident sounding as I had imagined it when I ran it through my head earlier. It’s quiet first, until Betty slowly removes her eyes from her computer screen and looks at me to realise I’m actually speaking to her. This doesn’t improve my awkwardness.

“Jughead asking me how my weekend was, that’s new.”

“Never mind the past, I’m asking you now. _I’m being nice_.”

She looks at me amused as if to say she’ll never understand my ways. “My weekend was alright.”

Suddenly interested, Archie asks: “What does Betty Cooper do during the weekend?” Like it’s a statement not a question.

“Why this sudden interest in my weekend?” Betty asks.

“Because!” Archie blurts. “You’re like … the schools mystery girl!”

Betty looks perplexed at this. “Really? I had no clue.”

“You didn’t? I mean you’re always riding around on that skateboard of yours, never minding anyone. Always by yourself… But it’s like… it’s a choice or something. I mean it’s great!” Archie looks fearful he might have hurt her.

“Really? I always assumed people think I’m odd.” Betty ponders, having abandoned her work on my article completely for the moment. A rarity.

I was about to point out that a fair amount of people probably does but Archie was too quick. “Absolutely not! Jughead here for example, he loves a good mystery.” He gestures at me, inevitably receiving one of my iconic death stares in return. Betty is looking at me with a new interest, making my eyes divert to the notepad in my lap and stay there.

“Hey, can’t you show us some tricks on your skateboard?” Archie asks.

Betty shrugs. “I don’t really know any tricks.”

“Oh okay.” It’s quiet apart from the trickling rain. Archie keeps looking at Betty in expectation.

“I do know this one thing.” She says finally.

I raise my eyebrows while not looking away from my notepad. Having not expected her to come through.

Betty stands up reluctantly and Archie hands her the skateboard from where he’s sitting. I glance at her, trying to seem disinterested yet fundamentally really wanting to see what she can do.

“Okay, so I’m going to show you what is called a kickflip.” Typical of Betty to turn it into some sort of presentation, I think. “It might take a few tries.” She says modestly.

And it does.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got this guys, I just need a couple of tries you know.” She says determinedly. I realise I’ve completely abandoned my actual current task at this point. I look at Archie who sits in deep concentration, looking at her as she tries to flip the skateboard with her feet. It’s almost as if he’s trying to do the job for her with only his mind.

When she finally manages some half assed version of a kickflip Archie stands up and cheers. “That was amazing! Seeing you do that!” Archie is completely blown. “Did you see that Jughead? Tell me you saw that?”

“I did.” I say and smile despite myself. My eyes fly over to Betty’s who reciprocates. We sort of laugh as how ultimately bad that was. My lip twitches into a smile at this sudden connection we’re having. I am prepared to look away but when she doesn’t, I also don’t. I fight the destined urge deep inside me to avert my gaze. Instead we’re just smiling at how dumb Archie is inadvertently being.

Archie leaves shortly after that and we are left quietly working by ourselves. Just when I am about to leave Betty calls me over to her. I roll toward her on my rolling chair.

“I don’t think it’s evident what you are referring to here.” She says and motions at a certain place in the text, careful not to touch the actual screen. She’s pedantic like that.

“Okay. What if we just…” I touch her shoulder lightly to move her so I can fix the error but she flinches away like I’m a hot stove.

I look at her. “Sorry, I forgot I have the plague.” I say jokingly and she laughs slightly.

“No, I just wasn’t prepared for the spontaneous touch.”

I fiddle with the paragraph to make it clearer while pondering her behaviour, spontaneous touch or not, people rarely react that strongly. I wonder why she does. Nonetheless I can’t help but identify with that same hesitance toward unnecessary touching.

“Spontaneous touch is a pretty good band name.” I mumble absentmindedly and Betty seems to relax beside me.

“I should probably head home now.” I say finally, standing up and grabbing my bag.

Before I’m about to leave Betty says apologetically behind me, “Also Jug, try and not end your sentences with prepositions.” I turn and roll my eyes for her to see.

“I’m an artist, an avant-gardist. I don’t conform to the rules of prescriptive grammar.” I preach while walking out of The Blue and Gold offices before turning back one last time, popping my head through the doorframe. “What I mean to say is, thank you for your input.” I smile playfully at her.

Betty simply shakes her head.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s some 50’s doo-wop playing in the background at Pop’s. I’m alone with Betty in a booth, the neon light reflects on her cheek serving to make the whole interaction feel somewhat intimate. She’s completely absorbed in her writing, milkshake disregarded and forever making me feel as gradual as a tombstone, or maybe the actual corpse resting underneath it.

Lately I’ve been looking forward to deadlines as we get to hang out for hours and hours because of Betty’s meticulousness, and perhaps my absent-minded behaviour. We agreed, and it was a mutual decision, that it would be best for us to continue working after hours someplace outside of the school. The change of location would bring with it new inspiration and hence new creativity.

I have found myself enjoying the time I spend with her in a way I seldom do others. Seldom do I feel anything other than uncomfortable when spending time with other people. Other people make me think of how I am in opposition to them. And I find they are like pop culture, as easy to like as to tire of. I could never tire of Betty, she is like a piece of high culture in that you have to grow to like it, learn to like it, but when you do it stays with you. You’ll love it forever as the day you first began.

My eyes are torn from the milkshake I’m staring at when I hear Archie’s voice. “Juggie! Betty!” I slowly become aware of the thoughts I was having while being seated so close to Betty and in such a public place. I am drenched in a strong feeling of having invaded upon some territory I shouldn’t have, that wasn’t mine to enter. I try to shake my feelings and greet Archie and the people he’s with who have made the place significantly louder upon entering.

“Hello.” I smile at Archie and by default the rest of his crew as they sit down in our booth. Archie sits down a little too close to Betty and says something to her, something which I cannot register as the girl sitting next to me starts asking me about what I’m writing and I have to fake some politeness. “It’s a piece on the drive-in and the history of the theatre.”

“Cool!” She says, like it’s a lot cooler than it really is. “So are you like some sort of writer?” She leans closer with her elbow on the table. I now realise that she’s drunk. I glance at Betty who is still talking to Archie while the rest of Archie’s company entertain themselves. I notice that Archie is also drunk, a little at least. Everyone is drunk. Except for Betty and I.

“Um. Yeah, I write for the Blue and Gold. It’s Riverdale’s school newspaper.” I say, uncertain of whether she is aware that there is a newspaper or even attends the school.

“Wow. I didn’t expect to find a writer as I sat down here, and I’m not complaining. Writer guys are hot.” She says, like it’s a secret she’s sharing with me. She’s leaned in closer as she’s spoken. I lean away nervously while looking at Betty again, who isn’t even noticing what’s happening. I half expected her to react in some sort of way, but then I remember who I’m looking at.

“What are you thinking of Jug?” Archie smiles like he needs no answer.

I scorn at him. “The vastness of space.” I say while focusing on Archie instead of Betty who is only now registering my existence and witnessing my scowl — always at the worst of times, never at the right of times.

The unknown girl next to me laughs lightly and I turn toward her unwillingly. “So, are you like some troubled poetic soul who writes to escape reality?” She smiles.

“I wouldn’t say that.” I mumble while fingering the hem of my computer screen.

“I would absolutely say that though, Hannah.” Archie interrupts.

Betty starts packing up her stuff.

“I’ve always wanted to write.” The girl says.

“You should.” I reply.

Betty jumps over the backseat of the booth, not bothering to get everyone to scooch.

“Maybe you can teach me?” The girl asks.

“Sure.” I hollowly agree. “Hey Betty, where are you going?” I hurriedly call after her before she’s vanished.

“I’ll finish everything at home, Jughead. Hope that’s alright.” She gives me a quick smile before exiting the diner.

I turn back toward the group again, running the different scenarios through my head of how this night can unfold. I finally settle on the option of not spending it here and begin quickly packing up my stuff.

“You leaving?” Archie asks, to which I reply with an absent-minded ‘yeah’. And like my great successor I jump over the backrest with style that carries until I am outside in the solidifying cold. I reflexively run my gaze upwards to take in the stars along with a few clouds scattered among them. When I turn my attention back to terrestrial regions I see though the smoke on my breath that Betty is walking along the road in the distance. Surprisingly she is carrying, not riding, her skateboard.

With my hands in my pockets I jog toward her patiently. She looks back at me briefly to register my evolving presence by her side. Once I have fully evolved she gives me a sad smile that is barely even a smile. I smile back in the same melancholy way.

Silence ensues as we saunter through the dark.

“You decided to head home as well?” Betty asks, putting a nail in the silence.

“Yeah.” I say, unsure of what to elaborate with.

“Why not stay and hang?”

I look at her. She seems to find this outwardly trivial conversation important in some way. Like it matters. “I guess it’s not really my crowd.” I pause. “Didn’t I make that clear at the party last week, I don’t enjoy hanging with people who only look to get drunk and hook up or whatever… Or most people in general to be honest.”

Betty is quiet once again. Making me worry I’ve said something to hurt her. But I’m not about to ask her. I feel like I would be opening some sort of door if I did.

I have just managed to get my mind on other things than the possibility of having hurt her when she finally speaks again. She speaks after having audibly hesitated a couple of times, with some sharp intakes of breath that lead us nowhere.

“Do you ever feel like you’re missing out?” She asks. “Like your youth is passing you by and one day you’ll be looking back wishing you’d have just played along with everyone and had fun while you still could. While you still could be young and stupid.”

I stay quiet for a long time. Not because I’m thinking, I already know the answer. It’s that I want her to know that when I do answer, that I have taken the appropriate time to think about the answer before giving it to her. I want her to know that I’m taking the question seriously and that I’m not just agreeing for the sake of it.

I feel a pull, a strong pull inside me to lie to her, but I decide to be truthful. “Yes.”

She looks at me, her eyes are anxious.

The houses along the street are gradually getting nicer as we step closer to Betty’s place.

I feel like Betty has indulged me in some way, so I decide to ponder on. “When I’m at those parties, I really wish to join in, but then that’s just not me. Still I really wish I could be that kind of person. Like Archie and the others.”

Betty looks at the ground. “You don’t want to join them but you wish that you did want to.” She concludes.

“Yes.” It feels wrong having this connection with Betty. We aren’t the same. Betty’s future is bright. She’ll never end up looking back with regret. She isn’t doomed like I am and I need to let her know. “But you know, Betty. Just because something is one way now, doesn’t mean it’ll always be. You’re only in high school after all. You’ll find your place in due time, people who are like you and where you’re supposed to be.”

Out of nowhere she stops and looks at me. I am taken aback until I realise that it’s her house we’ve stopped outside of.

The lack of light inside the house serves to make it seem empty and ominous.

“You will too Jughead.” She says, trying to sound convincing not for herself but more for the sake of convincing me, I suppose.

“Yeah.” I say, only to satisfy her, rather than to speak the actual truth.

A sigh escapes Betty’s lips. She looks around at the houses made grey by the lack of light. Seemingly she is considerably calmer at this point. Did I calm her? I wonder, feeling hopeful it might be the case.

“I had fun tonight.” I say.

“Are you being genuine?” She confronts me with, while flicking her hair back over her shoulder.

I roll my eyes and change the subject. “Are you coming to the game tomorrow?”

“To join macho guys emitting primitive sounds from the stands?” She says sarcastically.

“Fine. But, I’ll be there to subtract some of the macho-ness.” I assure her with a smile.

“Is this you trying to convince me to come along?” She asks, smiling back and wagging her board back and forth with her foot.

“No.” I say, suddenly defensive. “I’m just _saying_ … that if you think there will only be hyper-masculine, grunting men there, then you’re wrong. And if that’s the reason you’re not going, you should rethink. As I will not grunt, but instead make sarcastic, nevertheless eloquent, commentary throughout.”

Betty nods back at me with a smile. There is a lot of smiling going on right now, which I really like.

Silence and smiles.

“Well. If there is nothing else I can do for you, then I think I’ll be heading inside actually.” Betty announces with a tentatively tone.

“I mean, I would love to see that trick again, what was it … a kickflip?” I tease.

“A kickflip, yes.”

“I mean, it was such a _wondrous_ thing to behold. But asking for it again would possibly be to overstep?”

“I do believe so.” She gets up on her skateboard. “It truly is a once in a lifetime experience…” She takes of and circles the pavement around us. “…to witness the great Betty Cooper do her magnificent kickflip!” She speeds up. “Only a fair few have had the privilege.”

“And I dare not take such a thing for granted miss Cooper.” I finish.

“Well then…” She stops in front of me again. “Goodnight Jug.” And she takes of toward her home and steps inside.

As soon as she has closed the door I instantly take off in the direction we just came from to my own version of a home. A decision I’ll come to regret the next day.

* * *

**8 May 2017**


	6. Chapter 6

There was a football field. The field had players. The players on the field had footballs. The football field was lit up by stadium lights. The lights gave light to the field in the dark October night. The night lacked any sight of Betty.

So far, at least.

I am bitter as the air sitting alone in the stands watching Archie, who I can barely make out on the field anyway. Still I’m here. I promised him I would be, and as we know from previous experience (cue sarcasm) if I promise Archie something, I stay true to that promise.

My pocket buzzes and I pick up my phone, finding myself staring at a text from Betty.

_Shine with the flashlight in your phone so I can find you._

I immediately start looking around for her. But I am without luck. I then remember her request so I pick up my phone to indicate to her where I am located in the stadium. When I hold it up I am inundated with feeling silly. I get the feeling I’m bothering everyone else. I can feel people’s eyes on me. The person next to me shifts in their seat. I keep holding the phone despite my better judgement, really hoping I won’t have to sit like this much longer.

“Ey Jug, this isn’t a pink Floyd concert!” Someone calls from behind me.

There it is. What I was waiting for, but wishing not. I force myself to keep shining the light despite the instantaneous whirlwind in my stomach.

And then I see her, blonde hair making its way up the stairs. Our eyes meet and I can finally stop drawing attention to myself.

“What’s up.” Betty says, and it’s a greeting not a question it appears. She takes a seat.

“Come to bathe in the fountain of testosterone?” I ask to which she smiles while looking out at the field beneath us.

“Yeah, why not?” She answers and I don’t push the matter further. Instead we enjoy –and I’m using that term loosely– the ¬¬game silently for the most part.

I wouldn’t have pegged Betty as the kind of person to cheer loudly when someone scores, but she does. To my perception, it might even appear she’s made it her life’s ambition.

She keeps asking me which number Archie is again. Every time she does, I grow one step closer to incendiary. I don’t want her to care what number he is. I want her to sit near me, brushing against me at times, asking me questions about my articles and minding the game as little as I truthfully do. I find myself hoping for gusts of wind so that the scent of her perfume is pushed closer to my nostrils. Instead she cheers every time someone scores, instead of doing the healthy quietly-sitting-down-action I am.

“Hey, Jug.” Betty elbows me lightly.

“Yeah?”

“That girl from yesterday at Pop’s...”

“Which girl?” I ask, faking oblivion.

“The one who was all over you.” She laughs.

I fake confusion yet again.

“The one who was _sitting next to you_.”

“Sure.” I finally say. “She wasn’t–“

“Either way.” She interrupts. “I think you should know, she’s been staring at you.”

“Is she here?” I fail to hide the dread in my voice.

Betty just looks amused and points to a girl a few rows down from us.

She’s sitting with what seems to be a couple of friends. They’re all talking and laughing. It’s probably the same people who were with Archie last night.

“She’s not even looking my way.” I mutter and focus my attention back at the field.

“Well maybe not right this second.” Betty explains frustrated. “She’s been staring at you, quite a lot actually. I keep catching her turning her head and lingering on you.” Betty whispers to me, leaning in dangerously closely. She seems far too amused by what she’s telling me for me to rest easy.

I face her, looking her right in the eyes. “I don’t care if she stares.” I say calmly and then return to the game in a scorn.

Betty is mute for a couple of seconds; she probably wasn’t expecting such a strong reaction. Finally she sighs. “Fine.” She leans back in her seat.

The game drags on. To be honest I’m not even following what’s happening anymore, if I ever was. A drizzle of rain begins to fall. It’s barely noticeable. Perches itself in a huddle on top of skin, it remains on the exterior, an outsider looking in. Or it penetrates a pair of jeans, becoming part of them in a wet puddle. A murmur is all that is heard of it.

“It’s odd.” Betty pipes up. Catatonically she stares out at the field, yet she still sounds somewhat nervous. She’s managed to set the tone of the forthcoming conversation to that of a serious one and I find myself dreading whatever comes next. “The other day you told me that you live further down the street from where I live. Although yesterday when we walked home from Pop’s, I saw you leave in the complete opposite direction. Why is that?” She looks uncomfortable now. Like she doesn’t really want to talk to me about this, yet feels compelled to.

My hands leave the seat I am holding on to and settle’s in my jacket’s pockets. I couldn’t think of anything else to give her but the truth. “Because I don’t live down the street from you.”

“Then where do you live?” She asks as soon as I’ve finished.

I can think of a variety of notions that could have provoked my next actions. Primarily I felt highly unprepared to tell a lie, which means that in my head I need to first debate whether or not I should lie, then actually think of a good enough lie. This gives me less time to think of something to say to Betty, who is by now looking right at me, assumingly waiting for me to set her straight. Secondly I genuinely didn’t really want to lie, although it felt necessary, which means that anything I would have said to her would not have appeared believable. And thirdly I just couldn’t think of a single street name for some reason.

It is an impossible task, answering her. So I do the thing that takes no brain capacity to do. After all, it seems my brain has shut down along with my hopes and dreams of keeping my living situation in the dark. I stand up and leave. Not only is that an awkward thing to do in itself, what makes it even more inconvenient is that I can’t ask Betty, who is sitting closest to the isle, to move so that I can easily escape the arena, I have to get a whole row of people to move out of my way as I clumsily bypass each and every one. The whole thing is a mess basically. Luckily Betty lets me escape.

I stop walking once I have left the school grounds. I slide my phone out of my pocket and start typing a message.

_Had to leave. See you in school._

I send the message to Archie, hoping he doesn’t ask and thinking he probably won’t. Standing steadfast on the sidewalk I watch the trees sway with the wind for a moment of peace before I let a forthcoming wave of thoughts erupt.

I am about to leave when I see Betty approaching me in the distance. My heart begins to pound. I can’t take a confrontation, especially not with her. That’s not what our relationship is supposed to be like. Yet I stand still awaiting her. I can’t just leave, not again, and not when she knows I’ve seen her.

“Didn’t think you followed me.” I state sheepishly.

She smiles sadly and then something switches in her countenance, she puts on a joking tone. “I gave you a head start is all. You didn’t think the journalist in me would let you leave it at that? I ask you a simple question and you disrupt the game for at least 15 people to avoid it?”

“Well then… thanks for the head start, I guess?” I reply, unsure of what to say.

“Yes, well, I guess it was a mixture of being genuinely stunned by your behaviour and also pity as I watched you desperately stumbling between the seats that lead me to grant it to you.” She smiles.

I smile half-heartedly, not quite meeting her eyes with mine.

“But enough about that little incident.” She starts, getting straight to the point. To my surprise, she sits down. On the ground.

“It’s wet.” My eyes circle her presence, or rather the asphalt she’s sitting on. The water on the ground around her reflects a yellow shade coming from the streetlights. I decide to join her in a sitting position. I find it’s cold.

“So, Jughead. Where do you live?” She asks in her best impression of a reporter.

Before I answer her I take some time to regret the doting smile that a moment ago adorned my features. Damn it. I fiddle with my own fingers so as to not have to interact with her curious eyes. “…You know the Twilight?” I spare half a second to connect with her eyes and then I’m back to my hands. Her shoulders are raised in a futile attempt to protect herself from the cold wind.

“Yes.” She says. And I know that whatever I say next is barren; she’s already understood. Yet I march on although not so much with purpose but remorse.

“You know that night when we were sitting in the projector room working on the Blue and Gold?” I would have recalled the memory with fondness was I not forced to spare Betty the detail of my life, which I am most wounded by.

“Yes.” It comes out solemn and hollowly from her mouth. I dread having to continue on with –what she already knows– I’m about to say next.

“That’s home.” I tried to make the utterance with a sarcastic undertone. But there is no denying; it came out faint sounding.

What I gather from her expression, one I would rather not gather at all, is what I reckon I would depict from most people would they be in her seat. She is at a loss. She wants to help but doesn’t know what to do. Clearly I am now in a situation where I’m a 16 year old in need of help from other 16 year olds. Annoyance seethes inside me.

“Stay at my place.” Betty says frankly, as if what she’s saying isn’t weird at all.

My astonishment at her comment is one of multitude. To begin with, surprise that she would suggest such a thing. Second, dumbfound I hadn’t realised sooner it would come to this. That’s what Betty always does: she helps.

“Uuh, no.” I try my best at making it sound like I think it’s a stupid idea.

“Jug, you have nowhere to live.”

“I just told you where I live!” I say and stand up because I know this conversation won’t stop do I keep sitting here.

She stands with me. “That’s not a home despite what you say!” She argues while walking beside me.

I don’t retort, which results in us both falling quiet, the only sound being out breathing. I pretend she’s not there, it’s like we are walking beside each other yet not together. It’s not until I take a turn that Betty stops.

“Wait. Shouldn’t you be heading the other way?” She’s more confused than riled up like before.

I realise then that I can’t walk her home. Obviously. I give her a long stare. “Right. Well goodnight then. Thanks for the offer.” I force a small smile. She does the same.

And I’m off.

* * *

**27 May 2017**


	7. Chapter 7

I’m standing right outside her house. Which, I know, sounds like the premise of a horror movie. It’s not all that creepy I swear! She _did_ invite me after all.

 _She did invite me_. I try to convince myself.

I tried to stay at the Twilight, I really did. But as I looked around the room all I could think of was the night when she had sat in that chair, and looked out of that window and had her feet on that stool. The room has been warmer in a non-heat related way since that night. I could visualize the exact look of concentration she had had and her tired eyes. When I tried to think of something else I eventually would slip back down the rampage toward her again. Much like graffiti I am permanently marked with her tag, or rather, essence.

Yet her essence is not enough, so here I am. Standing behind the tree outside her house. Again, not like a creep! She _did_ invite me. The reason I’m behind the tree is because, even though I have made the whole journey over here, I am still not quite sure if I will take her up on her offer. Normally I wouldn’t come, merely out of not wanting to seem desperate, but facts faced: I am desperate. Truthfully I really don’t want to stay a second longer than I have to in that projector room. It feels like I am sleeping in someone else’s house; it’s a shelter, yet not quite comfortable enough. Although I guess Betty’s house would be someone else’s. But Betty isn’t _someone_. She’s Betty. And she actually really seemed like she wanted me to come. And also, _I really want to come._

I would climb up to her window but I don’t want to be one of those so-called “romantic” creeps in movies who climb up a girl’s house uninvited and knock on a her window. Not cool. So I send her a text.

 _I’m outside your house_. The text reads. I try to ignore the creepy undertones as I wait for her reply.

She did invite me. She did invite me. She did invite me.

Scared she’ll invite me in, scared she won’t I wait behind the tree. That’s when I hear it. Her voice. “Jughead!” She calls as silently as she can. After seriously contemplating staying behind this tree for the remainder of the night I step forward. It’s the thought of returning to the solidarity of the Twilight that forces me to emerge from the shadows.

I see her leaning out of her window, her room being the only source of light.

“You’re going to have to climb.” She says in a not so hushed anymore voice. It’s a challenge, I can sense, and I smile a smile that I’m not sure if she detects.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask while giving the rose trellis ahead of me a sceptic look.

“I don’t mind. I guess it’s up to you whether you think you have the aptitude.” Her tone is nonchalant, it’s teasing. She doesn’t think I can do it.

“I reckon it’s less about aptitude and more about whether the lattice will hold me.” I grab onto it to try and make out its stability. The fact that it’s made of wood doesn’t comfort me at all. “Here I come.” I say loudly enough for Betty to hear me but not to wake her family. As I make my way from one plank to the next, reaching for another something to grab hold of, I think of Betty’s room. I try to imagine it, but I find it kind of hard to. What’s harder to believe, is that I’m going to see it for myself as soon as I’ve managed to climb this thing.

“How’s it going?” Betty’s voice can be heard from the upside of the roof. There’s still that annoying challenge to it and I wonder if she’s even worried for me. Because I’m starting to worry for real and my heart is beating fast. The problem isn’t so much the climbing anymore and now it’s the fact that I’m presumably supposed to make my way over the edge of the roof, which doesn’t seem very likely in my head at the moment. But then, in my moment of despair, when I’m just about to seriously consider making my way down again and leaving this town for good, an angel appears. I look up to see Betty now sitting right above me on the edge. My eyes go wide at the sight of her.

“What are you doing?” I say a little too loudly.

“Shhh! Let’s not raise our voices Jug, I’m right here. Anyway, it’s okay, I’m out here all the time.” She whispers reassuringly.

“Oh, okay. It’s just with you being on the edge you are _way_ too near the edge in my opinion.” I wonder if she can even detect the intended humour beneath my exasperation.

Betty laughs and hoists herself up to a standing position, only to squat down again. She reaches her hand out for me. “You’re going to need someone to pull you up.”

I look at her and to my astonishment her expression is dead serious. So I guess I’m just going to have to do this. I run the thought through my head once: that, although it may seem dangerous, this is now something that I will soon do.

“Seems a little dangerous.” I say with a shaking voice.

“To the untrained eye.” Betty smiles. “Honestly, me and my cousin would do this on a regular when we were little. It’s not a problem.” She extends her arm once again for me, it seems she is ready to go. And honestly right now, the thought of falling on my back from this height is more soothing than the thought of folding and trudging back home. So I take hold of her arm in an iron grasp, and she pulls me over the edge to the safe haven.

The threat is terminated, but my heart still pounds loudly in my chest. The only thing I’m thinking of as I lay panting on the hard roof tiles is that missions often seem less intimidating while one has yet to actually embark upon them. This was one of those cases. I also wonder whether or not Betty can hear my heartbeat.

“Congratulations, you have now reached the safe haven. Your 72 virgins are just around the corner.” Betty says while lying down next to me.

“You do know that haven in safe haven and heaven are two different words, right?” I ask her. “They’re not even homophones.”

“Still a funny joke.” She retorts. “And by the way Jughead. That was pretty aptitudinal what you did just now.”

A smile breaks out across my face as I stare upwards at the sky. “Oh, what? You’re making up words now? This has gone too far Betty.”

“First of all, aptitudinal is a word, look it up. Second of all, what happened to, and I quote, ‘I don’t subscribe to prescriptive grammar’ end quote.” She mocks me.

“Making up words is not really the same as not believing in prescriptive grammar.” I retort although I can’t seem to make my smile disappear.

Betty sits up and looks at me; thankfully her smile is still attached to her body as well. “Really? Because making up a word and ending a sentence with a preposition seems equally silly to me.” She starts making her way back toward her window and I follow.

“I do agree however, that it was most definitely very aptitudinal of me. I reckon it almost measures up to your legendary kick-flip.” I keep teasing as we climb.

“So we’re on board with aptitudinal being a word all of a sudden? And yes, although I feel strongly that your work was aptitudinal indeed, I believe my kick-flip reaches the highest height on the Richter scale of aptitude.”

When I get to the window she’s already sitting on her bed. She suddenly looks a little insecure while I step inside as quietly as I can. She’s in a t-shirt and a pair of soft shorts. Despite being the only source of light from the outside, her room is dark except for some fairy lights lighting the walls. Betty is quiet and I inspect her room without trying to make it seem like I am. The colours are dark, there are posters of bands I have no clue about and there are a lot of plants.

“You like plants?” I ask in a lack of other things to say.

She studies me for a second. “They clear the air … and I clear theirs.” She says and picks up her nearest plant on her nightstand and breathes barely audibly on to it.

I try to smile but it comes out irresolute and she rolls her eyes.

“I don’t name them or anything. It’s just nice to have a little bit of nature with me as I escape to a highly mechanic indoor world.” Betty still has that insecure tinge to her that erupted when we entered her own personal safe haven, so to speak. It’s fun to see her not be the girl who skates around Riverdale High in her own world. Even if that is the girl I’ve had an interest in from day one.

“Well if you’re not going to name them...” I tread cautiously toward one of the plants on her desk, eyeing her for permission.

“Go ahead.” She says.

Most of the plants are just green leafs, I suspect some sorts of herbs. But some of them are actual flowers bursting with colours like lilac or yellow, giving some shades to the otherwise achromatic feeling this room has. “What’s this plant?” I ask, smelling the leaf of a specifically odd looking one.

“I don’t know. I don’t usually bother learning about each plant, I just buy random seeds if I like their picture on the packaging.”

“I see. So you plant them yourself?”

Betty smiles. “I do. Or I try at least.”

I look around at the array of plants she has in her room, they are all placed randomly and there seems to be no thought whatsoever toward the layout. “Seems your attempts are paying off.” Betty remains quiet while I further inspect her plants. “This one I will name … Abel.”

Betty’s eyebrows are raised when I look at her. “Off to a good start.” She says.

I ignore the comment and move on to the next one. “You will be called Gabriel.” I am seemingly now _talking_ to the plants.

I circle the room, mostly looking at her posters while occasionally naming the plants I pass by. “You will be called Josef … and you are definitely a Maria … does this look like an Abraham or an Isaac to you, Betty?” Until I am left with only one plant left to name. I hesitate before I take a seat next to Betty on the bed. The atmosphere changes, time seems to move slower. My eyes drift to the plant she’s holding on to tightly. It’s a cactus. I take my finger to poke gently one of the thorns. “I shall name you … Elisabeth.” This receives me a look from Betty.

“How come they’re all names from The Bible?”

“I just realised that as well and I’m not sure why.” I answer. Betty breaks out laughing. “It just sort of happened I guess.” I add while laughing with her. We are both cupping our mouths with the intention of not being too loud.

When the laughter dies out Betty falls into a hesitant manner of being, leaving her exterior intriguingly abstruse. She looks at me with eyes as curious as my own. I find myself not having the faintest idea how this night will lead on. If I had been at the Twilight I would have been asleep by now, waiting for the next day, which would proceed to look suspiciously similar to the last. Instead a pair of intriguingly abstruse eyes are staring at me and I’m dying to find out why they are so.

“We should probably sleep.” Betty says. She doesn’t move a muscle. I look at her, uncertain of what to do.

“Right.” This is the awkward part, the part I can’t play off by giving her plants Bible names. We now have to be real about the cold truth of the situation, the fact that I’m taking refuge in her room. The fact that she is saving me, she’s providing me a home in a way that the Twilight couldn’t even try to. But I am an intruder still, upon ground that doesn’t belong to me, ground that doesn’t really have a place for me.

“As you may have noticed, there is no extra bed. Putting one in would obviously be a dead giveaway to my parents.” Betty puts her cactus back on the nightstand. “So you can either sleep with me on my bed or on the floor. The bed is quite big so I really don’t mind.” She says without really looking at me.

I stand up, suddenly restless. “Yeah, but that’s alright I’ll just sleep on the floor. No worries.” I say while looking around, seizing her bedroom floor since it’s the place I’ll be spending my next few hours.

“Jug.” She interrupts my heedless scurrying, putting my motions to a halt. “You can sleep on the bed.” She states clearly, making sure to pronounce every syllable.

I debate in my head what’s best to do in this situation. Should I do what I want to, and sleep on the bed, or should I insist on sleeping on the floor? I don’t want to do the wrong thing and I want to be a good guy, whatever that even means. But I find myself agreeing to her proposition none the less.

Silently she moves over to one side of the bed and lies down. The silence remains while I remove my shoes and jacket, I don’t even bother removing my suspenders before I lie down on the opposite side. She turns the fairy lights off and it’s pitch dark for a while until I can see her outline, and then her eyes and then I gradually have a more detailed perspective of her features. I watch her as she studies intently the palm of her hand.

“Remember that time at the party?” She asks quietly, like she’s whispering to a small flower. “You took my hand in yours, but you never shook it. What was that?” Her eyes never once leave her palm.

“I wanted you to know that I was aware of your scars. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it was fine.”

“My intention was only ever to be considerate, let you know that you are not neglected.” I tried my best to choose my words carefully, but in the end I still felt like said the wrong thing.

“Yes, I understand. It did make me feel …less alone.”

I keep staring at the back of her hand while she stares at the palm of it.

The night served to make our brains tired and thus it filtered less, leaving us with a pealed version of ourselves for the other to take part in. The darkness served to make our appearances less conspicuous, leaving a false sense of concealment for us to be relieved by. Possibly as a result of that, I found myself reciting Edgar Allan Poe, “And by strange alchemy of brain, her pleasures always turned to pain, her naiveté to wild desire, her wit to love, her wine to fire.” I feel a little silly, but I plough through and afterward she finally looks at me.

When she doesn’t say anything, I proceed to tell her, “If you want to, you can try explaining how you feel. I am very interested.”

“It’s a mystery.” She says.

“I love mysteries.” I say.

She hesitates for a long time. But I know she will say something eventually, and it takes a little bit of will power to wait for her, yet I manage.

“I don’t have any friends, no one seems to like me.” To my surprise she doesn’t sound insecure, she sounds casual.

“Are you sure that no one likes you or if maybe sometimes… you shun away from them?” I think of all the times I’ve tried to make our relation move beyond that of a professional one and Betty has seemed oblivious to my attempts, in her own little world like always.

“Why would anyone be interested in me? Have you seen the way I dress and have you seen the people at Riverdale High?” She asks frustrated.

“Then why do you dress that way?” I ask curiously.

“Because! It doesn’t matter, I’m not like them either way.” Her eyes are wet but her exterior doesn’t falter, she’s still hard as a rock.

“And how are you different?” I realise that I’ve become some sort of bot, I’m not so much here anymore, she’s not even looking at me, she’s talking to herself and I’m just the catalyst keeping the conversation going.

“They drink, they party, I don’t– I’ve never felt… sexually attracted to anyone.” She finishes, and suddenly I’m there again, in her room, right next to her. She looks directly at me for the first time since the conversation started, but I can tell she finds it hard to. “That’s why no guy would ever be interested in me.” She concludes. “That’s why I wear what is comfortable rather than what is pretty. _Because it doesn’t matter_ , it won’t make a difference.” She stares at me and straight through me, if I moved her eyes wouldn’t follow. “This is what straight girls would look like it there existed no boys to please.”

I laugh at that. “I don’t think that’s true. Do you really believe they would go through all that trouble just to please boys? I think they do it for none other than themselves.”

“Are you saying girls are selfish?” She jokes and I laugh.

“You’re twisting my words.” I smile.

“I’m a writer, get used to it.”

“Right, forgot you’re a professional word twister.” I say sarcastically.

Betty manages a smile but I can see that she is somewhat emotionally drained. “You don’t seem surprised.” She says but realises subsequently that I have no idea what she’s referring to. “About me being asexual.” I can tell the words are new even to her when she says them and I can’t help but wonder how she can be so confident in talking about herself and expressing her feelings, how she can be comfortable with using such a strong label.

“Well… I will begin by saying that I don’t usually assume things about other people’s sexualities. Although the idea… it hasn’t _not_ occurred to me.” I pause to look for her reaction, when it doesn’t come I continue on. “And now that I know it’s clear… It’s in everything you do. It’s you.” I finish, completely unhappy with my feeble phrasing.

“I’ve had these fantasies about getting drunk and doing it just to get it over with. I’ve thought I was gay and I’ve thought that it came from my insecurities and that if I would just learn to love myself then I would get comfortable with loving someone else intimately. But lately, very recently actually, I’ve learned to accept it. Not stopped wishing things were different, but accepted it.” She blurts out all at once like a song.

My heart beats fast. I felt a rush at her words, or more precisely, at how well I identified with them. I want to tell her how much the same we are, but I find I simply can’t. Stating something, which I have been supressing for so long, is too much for me in this instance. I am not prepared for this. I look at her, trying to telepathically mediate what I feel instead. But she is no mind reader. Of that I’m sure.

“But you.” She begins. “You have a lot of… fans. Yet you never seem interested, why is that?” She queries.

“I guess it comes down to feeling like I don’t have anything to offer them. This notion that I won’t be able to give them what they want.” I sigh.

“And what is it that they want, do you think?” She looks into my eyes, really looks for the first time, not letting go. I’m scared she will see through me and I don’t quite hold her stare like I wish I could.

“I’m not sure.” I finally mutter, but it’s useless, she has already seen it in my eyes.

“Are you asexual?” She asks.

“No.” I say before I have time to think.

The quiet paves an audial way to the wind outside.

“I just think that sex is stupid.” I say. In retrospect the statement seems a little childish, but Betty gives me a doting smile.

“Then don’t be asexual, just let us share that opinion an all be well.” She says.

I briefly wonder about the time, but I soon come to find that that’s not where my real queries are. Once I’ve mustered enough courage I ask, “Do you like kissing?”

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You haven’t had sex either but you still know you don’t like that.”

“Fine.” She smiles. “I believe I do like kissing.” She covers her face in her hands fleetingly in an attempt to shelter herself from sheer awkwardness. The motion is small, but it sparks something inside me. The field of my vision slithers down to her lips.

“Would you like to try?” I ask in the darkness of her bedroom with a vulnerable tinge to my voice. I would be surprised by my own profoundness, but she isn’t this distant goal anymore. She’s a person, and we are on the same level.

“Okay.” She says, but she looks scared. “But I don’t know what to do.” She further explains.

“That’s okay.” I say impatiently. I move toward her, my breathing is slow. The truth is I don’t know either. I have no damn clue. But although missions often seem less intimidating while one has yet to embark upon them, only for you to find out they are a hell of a hassle, some of them are still worth pursuing and some of them you find out later to not be as intimidating as you thought.

When our lips meet I come to find that the latter is in this case true. What has for so long felt completely unobtainable, feels entirely natural with Betty. I take hold of her neck and she takes hold of mine and we pull each other closer. Her lips twitch into a smile, causing mine to do the same. We hold on to each other for as long as we can until we can hold our breaths no longer and fall back on our individual pillows, staring at the roof.

“That was good. But we have to try again.” Betty breathes.

I beam at her. “Again you say?”

“I’m sorry, but we have to use tongue I think. Otherwise it doesn’t count.” She says like it’s a matter of fact.

“Don’t apologize to me.” I say and lean in toward her again, there’s a newfound craving inside me to be close to her.

Right before our mouths meet she stops me. “Just be careful though.” She’s got her hand on my shoulder, which I like. “Don’t use too much tongue, it’s just supposed to skim the lips I think.”

I look at her lips while I whisper, “Fine.” I’ve found out recently that it’s my new favourite place of hers to look at.

She eventually releases her hold on my shoulder and I am free to lean in toward her, I do it as slowly as I can. I do believe that slow is key here. Sort of like a constructed pause in rhetoric’s. And just like tea it is not the way she tastes when I kiss her but the way she makes me feel inside. Sort of like everything is tingling. The only sounds that are heard come from the wind outside and out mouths moving together, figuring out along the way, how much of our tongues are needed.

“And so being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.”* I recite to her once we’ve drawn apart.

* * *

Thank you for reading

**8 June 2017**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The poem is Romance by Edgar Allan Poe.


End file.
